The beautiful slave
by ChuckBasstardDefender
Summary: Little naive Bella is looking for her submissive, after a wild night at a BDSM club in Sweden, would she find him?  Written for Horror story genre lit club. Dedicates to all the beautiful masochists out there...


**Well, hello there. Yes, i'm alive. I apologize for not updating anything since new year's, but life's been busy. This story is really fucking tought, i mean it is meant to be read with an open mind and a trash can nerarby... no, jk, jk, listen but seriously: OPEN MIND.**

**So, yeah, read and review, please**

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**I**

The sickening sound of leather against skin surrounded the small room through the expensive stereo system that was installed. Whether it was pleasure or agony I was not sure. A feminine scream followed the slap, startling me. Her eyes shut once, twice… her breathing slowed and a slow smile spread over her beautiful features; full crimson lips, pointy nose and high cheekbones.

I was solely focused on the Mistress's ass, covered in the most innocent white lace panties. Such exterior for a monster was rather ironic.

"More?" the Mistress purred, caressing the woman's chin tenderly. Her gloved hands made her look old fashioned, more so with the leather corset. I thought this last detail was a little typical; leather corset during a scene.

The silver buckles of the Mistress's corset tightly bound the leather around her petite midsection- probably digging into her skin- showing off her bony shoulders. They were lovely shoulders. I wanted to bite them. I scolded myself immediately; slaves do not bite their Dominants, only if they are ordered to do so.

I had a thing for biting.

"Such a good little pet," her voice was low and in the same tenderly manner she had been caressing her. I looked away at the tender scene. This part I was not fond of, the emotional part.

I decided to focus on the slave's body, instead. Objectifying her helped me imagine myself in her position. Her hands were tied firmly over her head. I noticed how her ivory skin glowed under the soft lighting of the room, making her look regal and vulnerable. I couldn't see her face since she was turned from me. I felt ridiculously jealous of the chains that bound her, suspending her from the cold tile floor, removing all control over the situation.

I had too much control.

My fingers dug into the leather of the chair as the whip collided with the skin of her lovely back. As the Mistress lowered the whip I noticed the red marks that colored her skin. The contrast was quite exquisite, the almost translucent ivory against the crimson of her blisters.

"Ten… thank you, Mistress," the slave continued counting, breathing in slow gasps.

In this scene she was supposed to be a stubborn slave, disobeying her Mistress, now she was receiving her punishment. The Mistress was supposed to give her fifteen spanks, and the slave had to thank her after each one; she had to be grateful for anything her Mistress gave her.

"Eleven… thank you, Mistress." Mistress chuckled and continued each slap more forceful than the previous. "Fourteen… thank you, Mistress." The slave was now crying, her small body shaking with exhaustion and pain; probably arousal, too.

"Fifteen… thank you, Mistress." The slave exhaled in relief as the Mistress let the whip fall on the floor.

"You have earned your reward," the Mistress murmured appreciatively, running her satin clad fingers over the slave's thighs, teasing her. "Would you like to be fucked hard with the strap-on or would you like me to eat you out?" her blunt offer got the slave's attention. Her exhaustion seemingly left her posture and a wide grin spread across her face. "You may answer,"

"Taste me, Mistress," the slave whispered.

My panties were properly ruined as I saw the Mistress lick and suck her slave. I slipped my hand into my jeans and stroked the slick folds, rubbing my bundle of nerves as my impending orgasm approached. The Mistress' face came into my view just barely, her green eyes vivid and wild, staring right into mine.

"You may come,"

I obeyed.

**

* * *

**

**II**

My masochistic inclinations started when I was fifteen years old.

My mother had always been very strict, trying to keep me in the parameters of the 'goody two shoes' stereotype. I gladly succumbed to my mother's wishes of dressing properly, always adding stockings under skirts (no matter the length, no matter the weather), always adding a sweater to sleeveless shirts, and always covering my neck with my hair. Always covering and controlling. I hated it. I hated the quick way I always deluded myself into believing my mother's ideas, making them my own and defending them.

Dad was a hot-shot lawyer, fucking his secretary; typical suburbs cliché. Money opened all kinds of doors for me. It got me popularity, beautifully concealing designer clothes and over-eager rich boys. Functions and parties were a constant in my life, always something to celebrate, always something to get drunk over. There were always couples kissing in corners, adulterers exchanging heated looks from across the fine dining tables (my dad and his slut included), wives having shallow conversations and teeny boppers gossiping over the newest boy-band.

It made me sick.

My virginity was intact and my lips still untouched, even with the freedom that seemed to revolve around me. Boys had tried, luring me with sweet words and caresses, but it was still a no man's land.

Whenever I had a camera I'd tell people to take pictures with me so that I could feel a body next to me, touching me. When boys touched me, my legs would press together and an uncomfortable ache coiled from my belly and the tips of my nipples. When girls touched me I felt dazed, with the same ache, but less intense. I kept this up throughout puberty.

Until I met my Dominant, Edward Cullen.

I giggled when I first knew his name. He'd come from Sweden for a couple of weeks during the summer. When we met he licked his lips and told me he was going to have me.

"I'm a person, not an object," I'd whispered in a small voice. His presence was intimidating.

"You're whatever I want you to be," he growled.

He was dangerous, always commanding and raising his voice, even though no one noticed but me. His discreetness would always fascinate me. Also, his eyes were the wildest shade of green and his face factions were almost feminine, yet his strong body showed nothing but masculinity.

When he took my virginity he was gentle, touching me and making sure I'd cum before he entered me. He took control and I succumbed to his invasion. After "introductions" were made, he showed me the world of restraint and pleasure, the world of submission and domination, the world I needed and craved; the world of BDSM.

"I didn't…" his dark eyes silenced me as I began speaking.

"Didn't you feel it?" He ran his tongue over my damp back, erasing our love making sweat. "The spark, the power…?"

I hadn't felt anything but a sharp pain and his orgasm. I'd told him so, rather brusquely. It was the first time he'd spanked me, after all.

"Fuck you, girl," I noticed him standing to go, but I held onto his arm.

"I liked it," I lied, kissing his unmoving lips. "I felt it. What was it?"

"Nothing, just a spank; just the beginning,"

He was good to me, always explaining the procedures and origin of his inclination, luring me into it. "It started with some sick fucks flogging themselves. Then they discovered they liked it, adding more people into the thing." He'd told me one night after an intense love making session. "Namely, me,"

"I want to feel it again," I whispered, slipping my hand under the thin sheet.

"Kneel on the floor," he ordered.

That night he used his tie to bind my hands together and used me. I swallowed my tears and his cum, feeling vandalized afterwards.

"Min vackra slav," _My beautiful slave_, he'd whisper against my hair, caressing me sweetly.

I traced the scar in his head after sweet love making, sometimes. It was just a little raised skin, under his soft strands of hair. I never asked why he'd gotten it, as I was too afraid.

Being twenty one, he could enter BDSM clubs, but always refrained from going."I have no desire going anywhere min vackra slav can't," he'd explained when I asked.

I believed everything he said. Even when he wanted to try blood play, I succumbed to his seductions. Blood made me queasy, but when his lips met my torn skin and sucked my essence, I wasn't myself anymore

I wasn't a woman looking for the selfish goal of an orgasm; I wasn't a human with feelings and desires. I was his toy, rather an object than a living thing.

When he left I cried and told him I loved him. My Master was my reason for being.

"Jag älskar dig, min vackra slav," _I love you_, _my beautiful slave_.

I lost my love, my virginity and my sanity that summer.

* * *

**III**

Her vivid green eyes stayed in my mind as I walked out of the club. I couldn't understand my inclination. I wasn't gay or straight; I loved Edward, period. Another flash of green eyes invaded my imagination as I kept walking, the streets seeming so much darker.

My boots made a cracking sound as it hit the wet concrete, the only sound in the entire street. The normally bright lights of the street lights were off, only a few were mildly shinning, guiding me uselessly, as I was lost.

I wrapped my coat tighter against me, still feeling guilty of my transgressions. I'd cheated on my dominant, my love. The anxiety made my head spin slightly, my guilt was making me nauseous and I was completely alone.

A pair of heels could be heard from afar; one step after another. My hands began to sweat, the hairs of my neck stood. Still, the steady click, clack of the heels would resound in the quiet street.

Click

Clack

Click

Clack

I held my breath, widening my eyes and looking around. A cold whoosh of wind passed suddenly, cold and bitter as my heart. The bile rose in my throat. A slight pop resounded, then. The street was so quiet it startled me. I took out my mace spray, preparing my fingers for the assault.

Pop

Again the sound startled me, making me spray a little of the substance into the pocket of my coat. It burned my skin, but I pressed tighter against the small amount of liquid gathered there. I needed to be punished for my disobedience. It also distracted me from the sounds.

Pop

This time the heels sound started again, combining almost rhythmically with the pop.

Clack

Pop

Click

Pop

Clack

Then silence; complete and utter silence. My breathing was the only sound. I moved, making my clothes shuffle. Again a small pop, and then the most horrible sound: a laugh.

That was the last thing I heart.

* * *

**IV**

I was naked.

That was the first thought I had when I regained consciousness, also that my sight had been taken from me, as I was blindfolded.

My body image was never something very present in my mind, yet I was hyper aware that my position must not have awarded a very attractive image of the beautiful slave I once was. I was in a spread eagle position; my hands above my head, parallel to my also spread legs. I hadn't shaved in weeks and I had an angry rash in the skin of my inner thighs from friction and the cold. Ever since my Master left me I hadn't taken proper care of my body hygiene. I no longer wore perfume, only small amounts of deodorant after half-assessed showers. I reeked of sweat and trash; I smelled as I felt.

I wanted my Master to bathe me as he used to, always tender, always thorough.

My human instincts told me to struggle against the restraints, but my submissive instincts told me to stay put and be a good girl.

I felt as if my body and mind were divided in two: the submissive, my true nature, or myself. The difference was still to be known.

I decided to test the leather, rolling my wrists and pulling against them. It dug into my skin, but it wasn't anything unbearable since my entire torso was held by some sort of leather seat. I was comfortable, as far as playroom equipments go.

A door slammed, suddenly, rattling chains that sounded close to me. It frightened me.

"Look at that,"

The voice could have been masculine with its gruffness, yet also feminine as the enunciation of the words were so delicate, so carefully calculated and gentle.

"Who…?" I began to question the intruder, but was silenced with a painful smack against my calf.

"I gave you no permission to speak, pet," a cold hand touched my face, just a graze, but it was enough to make me recoil and my nipples tighten as a shiver ran through my body. "I don't think you'll be able to do so after I'm done with you," another shiver ran through me, this time it was fear.

I head the same rustling of metal and then that blood chilling laugh. "Please," I whispered in a vain attempt to save my body from torture.

That thought stopped me. Wasn't torture, pure-no-pleasure-no-nonsense-cruel torture what I wanted? What I'd always gotten from my Master? Wasn't this my true desire, or had I been deceived into another lie? My Master always pleased me and it brought me joy to please him. I enjoyed the pain I suffered in order to see his arousal protrude from the lovely tight pants he always wore in a scene. It was a consensual thing, sure, but isn't the end completely irrelevant to the means? If the objective was fulfilled: receiving pain to decompress, receiving punishment for any transgression or mistake, blurring the lines of pain and pleasure…wouldn't the way to get it done be a moot point?

Was I truly my Master's slave? Was I a slave at all? Was I a fraud, a hypocrite, an idiot like the rest of them? Wasn't I unique?

The metal rustling could be heard again, this time delivering a blow to my shoulder, so hard it knocked the air right out of my lungs.

"Count," the voice growled, a growl so familiar I felt a bit comforted despite the circumstances.

I would prove them wrong. I was a slave. This was my nature.

"One, thank you, Mistress?" I hadn't identified the sex of my Dominant yet.

"Call me Owner, better," the second blow landed on my ribcage, earning a scream form my lips. The pain was searing, mind numbing, and completely real. I felt absolutely no pleasure, just agony.

"Two, thank you, Owner!" tears streamed down my face as he/she continued his assaults, each time bruising, breaking something (surely vital).

When the count reached ten I'd become dizzy, the pain so intense it spread through my entire body. Not one inch of my body was unharmed.

"This is for your transgressions, pet," he/she stroked my broken chin, making me wince in pain. "Now let's get you cleaned up,"

My entire body tensed as I head the distinctive sound of metal being picked from a tray. This sound was as familiar to me as the sound of my own breathing. It was my greatest fear: blood play. This was my hard limit, the only thing I didn't like doing. I'd let my Master play with this type of fetish, but it was only with him. That part of my body was made for his lips only, not this person.

But I was a slave, and I was not to struggle.

"You're impure," the person whispered, almost to itself. "You need to be cleansed."

The blade cut through my wrist, spurring a wave of awareness and pain through my body; it was like a shiver of pain. The person laughed that horrible laugh before pressing his lips against the wound and sucking, and then cutting all over my torso, each time sucking the liquid.

It felt like hours before he/she stopped. My body felt swollen and numb, my mind so disconnected from my body it was almost like an out of body experience.

"I'm so satisfied with you, baby," the voice murmured, taking off my restraints, shifting things and making my entire body sing in relief as I was lowered into a plush bed. The blindfold was removed and my eyes stayed shut, feeling the hard breasts pressing against my broken back and the naked thighs pinning my own to the bed. I reached over, ignoring the searing pain that shot through my arm and touched its head. It was a wig.

I threw it away, feeling breathless. I touched the soft strands of hair, and found the raised skin I traced so many times.

"Min vackra trasiga slav," _My beautiful broken slave,_


End file.
